


what it means to be alive

by novoaa1



Series: natasha tries not to do "feelings" (the operative word here being 'tries') [7]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bedroom Sex, Bottom Natasha Romanov, F/F, I mean, Morning After, Morning Sex, POV Wanda Maximoff, Sharing a Bed, but like in a different way obviously, but soft, even if they don't say it yet, it goes so fast from natasha being smooth to flustered which i loVE, smutty obviously, they just love each other alright, they're so soft oh my goD, this is fuckin sofT okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 14:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20047636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: They wake up together, and talk... sort of.Also, Wanda has some realizations.





	what it means to be alive

**Author's Note:**

> ok so first off - i did get a request to do a jealous!natasha in this series, and i was going to do it for this installment, but honestly the whole thing kinda (really) got away from me so that didn't really happen here... sorry 0_0
> 
> that said, i am planning on making jealous!natasha be a central point of one of the upcoming one-shots, whether it's the very next one or the one after that....
> 
> so, um. yea. that. 
> 
> anyways.. enjoy?

Things are different between them, now. Wanda can feel it in her bones as the morning sunlight filters through the window in rays of golden amber, illuminating a scene in Natasha’s bed that positively manifests domesticity in all its tender mercy, one Wanda would never have dare to imagine within even her most fantastical dreams: an unconscious Natasha sprawled on her side facing Wanda, dressed in only that obscenely tight burgundy-red tank top and naked from the waist down, the fleece-white blankets pushed haphazardly down to her milky-pale thighs as she breathes steadily (almost soundlessly) in the effortless ambience of early morning. 

The tank is bunched up snugly just beneath her ribcage, revealing soft toned alabaster flesh riddled with pinkish scars and older ghost-white scabs, marks that Wanda yearns to trace with her fingers even as she knows she probably shouldn’t—she doesn’t want Natasha to wake quite yet, not whilst she’s relaxed and open and unguarded and _here_ for the first time since… well, since the day they met, Wanda thinks. 

It’s magical, the transcendent way in which the golden daylight streams across Natasha’s starkly pale figure, setting fiery-red strands ablaze with heaven-sent effulgence until Wanda thinks she can feel it actually hurting her to witness such categorical divinity in its purest form.

It’s magical, and Wanda never wants it to end. 

— — 

Natasha wakes a half an hour later, and Wanda can’t help but feel a powerful surge of disappointment at that even as the sight of Natasha’s lids fluttering open to reveal irises of magnificent green has her breath catching in her throat—she knows it’s rude of her to lay there just watching her, knows it’s probably rather disconcerting for Natasha to wake under such unrelenting inspection… 

But, she can’t help it—not when Natasha is burrowing further into the pillows and letting out tiny little sighs of contentment that ghost warmly against Wanda’s nose, when unfocused green eyes are coming to settle lazily upon Wanda’s, when a wry smirk tugs at full red lips and Wanda thinks she might just explode with how much she _feels_ for Natasha in this moment. 

“Hi,” Natasha murmurs, hoarse and quiet, the sunlight catching the verdant of her pupils just so whilst Wanda merely stares. 

“Hi,” she chokes out eventually, feeling her cheeks heat with an instinctive blush even as Natasha’s smirk widens. 

“Watching me sleep?”

Wanda bites her lip, nodding shyly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Natasha replies without a moment’s hesitation, a hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of Wanda’s flowing chestnut locks behind her ear. “I don’t mind.”

Wanda blushes but gives another nod, warmth blooming in her chest even as a loaded question lingers upon the tip of her tongue. 

“What is it?” Natasha asks a second later, her deft fingers beginning to languidly stroke at the smooth skin just beneath Wanda’s jaw—Wanda fights the urge to heave a sigh; she should have known she wouldn’t be able to keep it to herself for long. 

“I, um… " she trails off, heart thumping in her chest even as she wills it to slow. “What happens now?”

Natasha doesn’t flinch away from the question, not like Wanda feared she would—instead, her green-eyed gaze grows impossibly softer, and Wanda thinks that she might just be the most beautiful thing into the entire galaxy. 

“I suppose that depends. Are you free later tonight?” Natasha inquires with a deadly smirk, her voice sweet like molten honey, and Wanda thinks she’s died and gone to heaven. 

“A-Are you asking me out on a… a date?” she questions dumbly instead, blushing at her inelegant stutter even as Natasha’s eyes twinkle with amusement and something else, something Wanda thinks just might be a match to the utter adoration she can feel currently immolating her relentlessly from the inside. 

Natasha chuckles, low and throaty, the sound instantly causing Wanda’s heart to skip a beat. “Would you say ‘Yes’ if I was?”

Wanda can’t do much else but nod wordlessly, brows still raised in shock, unable to stop herself from lunging forward to press her lips firmly against Natasha’s in a searing kiss, an involuntary moan escaping her as Natasha immediately responds, the redhead’s supple body arching even further into her, their naked legs tangling beneath the sheets. 

She slides an arm around Natasha’s waist, pressing against the clothed small of her back and thrilling inwardly at Natasha’s gentle hum of approval—they part their kiss then for a moment, and Natasha moves quickly to straddle her, a keening whine escaping Wanda’s throat at the feeling of Natasha’s bare heat against her lap, achingly warm even through the thin cotton material of Wanda’s sleep shorts. 

They crash into another fervent kiss, messy and hot and _wet_; Natasha’s warm body feels like heaven against hers, full clothed breasts pressed teasingly against Wanda’s, her elegant back curved like a wooden bow beneath Wanda’s splayed hands, every moan Wanda gleans from her like the sweetest nectar from a blooming flower, intoxicating and dizzying for all the right reasons. 

Eventually, her hands come to skate just beneath the hem of Natasha’s tank, tracing delicately across those gorgeous dimples at the base of her spine, a smirk tugging at her lips when she consciously lowers them to caress the sensitive skin at the swell of Natasha’s cheeks and Natasha whines lewdly into her mouth in response—“Sore?” Wanda murmurs knowingly (though the question is slightly muffled by the grinding slide of Natasha’s full kiss-swollen lips against hers), and her smirk only widens as Natasha whimpers against her mouth. 

“A little bit,” Natasha mumbles back, then pouts _adorably_ as Wanda pulls away slightly to give her a vaguely incredulous look, a teasing glint in her blue-green eyes. 

“Only a little bit?” Wanda teases, hands coming down to give both full cheeks a firm squeeze (the bruised flesh delectably hot under her hands—she knows the cold contrast of her metal rings, too, against the heated skin is likely something profane), causing Natasha to let out a startled gasp, her body arching obscenely to press even more solidly against Wanda’s in a futile attempt to escape the sudden pain. “Are you sure about that?”

Natasha huffs testily at that, though there’s little substance behind it, what with her trembling hands scrabbling frantically for purchase upon Wanda’s clothed shoulders and the lewd swell of her breasts just inches beneath Wanda’s nose as her chest heaves delightfully whilst pressed fully against Wanda’s form, strangled gasps escaping her with every slight movement of Wanda’s hands upon her battered arse. 

“Touch me, Wanda,” Natasha gasps, and Wanda feels an unbearable heat pooling lower and lower in her belly as Natasha’s heat grinds devastatingly against her baggy-T-shirt-clad torso, her warm wetness beginning to soak through its cotton fabric until Wanda feels herself positively going mad with the sheer sensation of it all. 

But, just because it’s Natasha, and purely due to the utter absurdity that’s transpired in order to lead them here, she decides she’s going to have some fun with this—she thinks she’s earned it, after all: “Are you sure about that, Natasha?” she questions with another languid squeeze to Natasha’s exquisitely warm cheeks, delighting in the high-pitched whimper that escapes the redheaded woman upon her lap as a direct result. “You never let me touch you before. What makes now so different?"

Natasha’s eyes roll into the back of her head as Wanda strokes the heated skin of her behind, though her frustration is quite evident in the tightness of her jaw, a sight that thrills Wanda to no end. 

“_Please_,” she hisses through gritted teeth, pleading green eyes coming back to meet Wanda’s, pupils blown wide with desire. 

Wanda hums noncommittally, pretending to think about it for a moment. “But, you did not answer my question.”

Natasha merely groans in reply, a sound which rapidly increases in volume as Wanda times another squeeze just so around her plump cheeks, Natasha’s wetness now easily soaking through Wanda’s shirt, the musky scent of her permeating the crisp morning air around them in the most delightful of ways. 

“I didn’t—" she cuts herself off with an abrupt gasp when Wanda’s hands guide her to grind her soaked center _just right_ against Wanda’s body, breaths coming fast in hurried in an attempt to keep her cool. “I didn’t… know that I wanted… _that_,” she admits in a labored tone, the words quiet enough that Wanda has to strain to hear them. 

Wanda lets out a slow, tremulous exhale, bringing Natasha’s cunt up to drag lazily against the soaked-through patch of her tee and feeling her own arousal increase tenfold as another shaky moan—_Natasha’s_ shaky moan—infuses the air around them. 

“Wanted what, Nat?” Wanda whispers, sliding her hands back to the tops of Natasha’s pale thighs and swiftly pinning her body down, thereby successfully halting her desperate movements to get herself off—a strangled noise of protest escapes the redhead at that, and Wanda can’t help but smile because _God_, she’s a vision: strands of wavy red hair messily framing her perfect face, full pink lips swollen and red, porcelain cheeks flushed with arousal. 

Natasha bites her lip then, wide green eyes openly searching Wanda’s in a curious inspection, as if deciding whether or not to trust her with the truth (a contemplative complexion about her that Wanda knows is nothing short of a blessing to be privy to, as Natasha never allows anyone to glean what she’s thinking—not unless she wants them to); eventually, she seems to make up her mind, and, when she squirms anxiously atop Wanda’s lap, bruised cheeks warm against Wanda’s exposed thighs, Wanda can’t help but think that she truly is the luckiest woman on the planet. 

“Pleasure,” Natasha replies quietly, and Wanda thrills at the sight of her blush deepening beneath regal cheekbones—especially because, she knows it’s something Natasha can control, knows damn well that Natasha’s choosing to put her vulnerability on display for Wanda and Wanda only, and fuck if that isn’t one of the best goddamned gifts she’s been given throughout the tumultuous span of her short life upon this Earth. 

“I didn’t think… I didn’t think I was built for it—not receiving it, anyhow,” Natasha continues speaking, soft and sincere, her gaze steadfastly burning into Wanda’s even as the rosy flush upon her cheeks noticeably intensifies all the while. “I never… I never liked sex all that much, never really touched myself just for the sake of pleasure… I don’t… I just didn’t think I was made to like it."

Wanda’s heart clenches at Natasha’s confession, at the realization that the gorgeous woman before her has never been introduced to the exquisite pleasures of her own body, and she’s sure her eyes flash a luminescent (dangerous) red for a split second or two as the untapped _inequity_ of it all leaves her reeling amidst tidal waves of rage—but, she’ll also admit that it sparks something almost greedy (near _domineering_) within her: the knowledge that no one’s ever made Natasha feel that devastating euphoria of a blissful climax at the hands of another, not like she’s giving Wanda the precise opportunity to do so now. 

Wanda doesn’t want to think about anyone else putting hands on Natasha’s pert faultless body, or leaving marks upon her perfect round behind, or making her gasp and whine and _moan_ out loud like Wanda is now—and, if she plays her cards right, she thinks, she’ll never have to worry about it to begin with. 

There’s a million questions she wants to ask, a million reassurances she yearns to tell Natasha—all about how she doesn’t have to pleasure Wanda just to gain her favor, how she shouldn’t ever make herself do so unless she truly wants to, how Wanda will never have priorities that outweigh Natasha’s relative safety and comfort as long as she lives.

And, yet, she knows that that’s not what Natasha needs right now—what _either_ of them needs right now. Natasha’s delectable scent hangs heavy in the air, pervading Wanda with a musky sweetness she wholeheartedly longs to taste, calling to Wanda like a lighthouse in a perilous storm, begging her to oblige Natasha’s _need_ until she’s submerged entirely in all-encompassing felicity like she’d always deserved from the very start. 

“Do you want me to make you cum?” she asks simply, loving how the rather blunt query has Natasha shifting and squirming upon Wanda’s lap in obvious discomfort (though she doesn’t get very far either way under Wanda’s tight, unrelenting grip), the redheaded woman biting back weak moans with every slight movement. 

Wanda watches bemusedly as Natasha gives a stuttering nod, hips bucking of their own accord beneath Wanda’s hands, desperate for the friction that Wanda’s so conscientiously denying her. 

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Please, Wanda,” Natasha begs, her wavering tone suppressed yet so deliciously revealing, “make me cum,” she finishes, voice hoarse and low—Wanda nearly comes on the spot upon hearing it, the way those crude words sound rolling off Natasha’s tongue, so distinctly out-of-place yet so unquestionably perfect; _God_, she thinks she could do this forever. 

But, Natasha’s done her part here—bent to Wanda’s will, become soft and pliant under her hands, placing a delicate degree of trust in Wanda’s ability to take her apart, piece by piece, in the most pleasurable of ways; really, Wanda couldn’t have asked for much more than that (nor would she ever dare to).

And, so, she doesn’t hesitate for longer than a second before she’s dragging a single digit through slippery wet folds and earning the loudest moan yet from Natasha, who throws her head back at the sensation of it, eyes shut tightly with pleasure; _But, no_, Wanda thinks. _That won’t do_. 

Wanda pinches at the delicate skin atop Natasha’s thigh with her free hand even as the other works to lazily circle that sensitive nub just above her dripping slit, and, when Natasha’s pleasure-clouded eyes snap open to fix her with a somewhat half-hearted glare, she merely quirks a single brow in response. 

“I want you to look at me, Natasha,” Wanda tells her, gentle yet firm, the quiet request nearly lost beneath the strained pants that escape Natasha upon every deft swipe against her hypersensitive clit—but, Wanda knows Natasha hears her, if the heightened blush upon her cheeks is anything to go by. "Look at me while you come."

Natasha nods at that, shaky and imprecise, half-lidded gaze focused steadily upon Wanda—then, Wanda’s plunging two fingers into her depths without a single warning and grinding the heel of her palm against the woman’s clit and Natasha’s plump red lips are parting in a silent scream, her entire body shuddering obscenely upon Wanda’s lap even as her half-hooded eyes dutifully remain upon Wanda’s, pleasure threatening to overtake her in waves. 

“F-_Fuck_,” Natasha whines wantonly as Wanda sets a punishing pace, her wrist burning with every forceful thrust, Natasha’s arousal dripping readily down her fingers. 

“Are you close?” Wanda questions breathlessly, staring intently into Natasha’s eyes as she fucks her fingers relentlessly in and out of her sopping wet cunt, lewd noises filling the room on every stroke, loud mewls escaping Natasha with every precise grind of Wanda’s palm against her clit. 

Natasha nods, kiss-swollen lips pouting obscenely, jade-green eyes glassy with bliss.

“Y-Yes,” she stammers out bashfully, and God, Wanda wants to kiss her—so, she does, sliding her tongue easily into Natasha’s warm mouth and groaning as Natasha’s arms wrap securely around her neck to bring her closer, their kiss wet and hot and _filthy_ whilst Wanda adds a third finger and redoubles her efforts, bringing Natasha closer and closer to approaching her climax with every unforgiving propulsion, every unyielding glide against her swollen nub. 

It’s not long before Natasha’s heat is pulsing spasmodically around her fingers, and Wanda is swallowing Natasha’s desperate cries as she comes _hard_ upon Wanda’s lap, powerful shudders wracking her lithe body, wetness gushing around Wanda’s digits—and, still, Wanda fucks her steadily through it all, assiduously rubbing her twitching clit in a soothing rhythm and whispering gentle reassurances all the while, an entirely indescribable feeling of contentment in her chest as she watches Natasha surrender to the depths of self-indulgent pleasure, unabashed and endlessly beautiful, a celestial goddess from on high in every right. 

Wanda thinks she’s never before witnessed something so inexplicably _sublime_ in her entire life—well, Wanda thinks a lot of things, actually. She thinks she’s glad they waited to do this, glad she waited to feel Natasha clenching around her fingers in an earth-shattering climax (even if it is for all the wrong reasons), glad she didn’t ever have the chance to see this beauteous spectacle for anything less than what it is: ethereal and otherworldly; _radiant_. 

But, perhaps most poignantly of all, Wanda thinks that this is the consummate edge of heavenly rapture… that this, right here, with Natasha gasping for breath above her in the wake of soul-binding pleasure, is the kind of exalted transcendence people kill themselves searching for in this life; that this, now, is what it means to be truly alive. 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> as always, love to know what you think... (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


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